The Hunger Games: Capitol Edition
by ThisxisxSarcasm
Summary: My name is Aurora Snow. I am President Snow's granddaughter, and I will pay the price for his sins. Today is the final Reaping Day. Today, the final Hunger Games begin.
1. The Reaping

My name is Aurora Snow. I am President Snow's granddaughter, and I will pay the price for his sins. Today is the final Reaping Day. Today, the final Hunger Games begin.

I woke up at the crack of dawn, unable to sleep at all. Nightmares of what was no doubt coming had me tossing and turning all night. I stumbled out of bed, groggy and exhausted.

I thought about going to check on my baby cousin, but I was sure she was still asleep, and I didn't want to wake her up. Instead, I hopped into the shower. I deliberately took as long as possible. Only a few showers remained. Blistering hot water cascaded down my body. Steam filled the air until a solid mist made it difficult to see. I stood there for hours, letting the water irritate my skin. While there, I thought about how it had come to this.

As punishment for the first rebellion, the Hunger Games had been initiated to prevent further uprisings from the districts. For seventy-three years, twenty-four tributes went to the arena. For seventy-three years, one would return to his or her home district, where he or she would live a life of wealth and luxury. That was the prize for winning, as well as instant celebrity status in the Capitol. They were rewarded for being the best, the ones with the strength, intelligence, and overall luck to survive. The Capitol even rewarded the entire district when its tribute was victorious, raining parcels filled with goods down upon the citizens.

I could only assume the first few years were the most exciting, as well as the most difficult for the contestants. They would have no previous concept of the Games, no time to prepare for what they could encounter. And who were the mentors? Every tribute had a Victor to guide them from outside the arena. Mentors secured sponsors, sent gifts, and often meant the difference between life and death. As the years passed, the number of Victors increased obviously and more and more districts had at least one person to supervise the young tributes.

Some districts, particularly two, came to see the Games as a way to earn honor and glory. Someone volunteered almost every year. The Capitol audience loved it. Two was the only district that treated the Games similarly to how we did, as momentous occasions that deserved the attention and expenditure given. I didn't think anyone in the Capitol ever considered the Games as something barbaric or cruel, especially not in the last fifty years. We were all raised on it. It was a part of the culture, who we were. How ignorance destroyed us.

The seventy-fourth year was when everything changed. Katniss Everdeen volunteered for her sister, which automatically made her stand out. Such selflessness inspired the people. Then she had the most talented stylist, Cinna, to ever design outfits for the tributes. He and his partner made her and her district partner Peeta unforgettable. They looked stunning throughout the entire process.

She scored an eleven in training. No one knew why as the public had no access to what they demonstrated. It would have been unfair. Then Peeta declared his love for her during his interview. She had made herself a saint, Cinna had made her beautiful and striking, and Peeta had made her desirable, an object of affection.

Everyone loved those games so much. For the first time, a love story unraveled in the arena. It enthralled the Capitol. When the gamemakers double-crossed her, she proposed suicide, which Peeta agreed to without hesitation. Instead of no Victor, we had two. Apparently, that moment sparked the rebellion, but I couldn't see how. No, revolution had been coming long before that sixteen year old girl did what it took to survive. We just hadn't seen it. Probably because we weren't looking for it.

Then they sent the Victors back into hell. The third quarter quell, which had to have been a set-up to kill Katniss, broke the sanctity of the Games. Victors were supposed to be untouchable. But they weren't, not really. No one was safe from the wrath of the Capitol. I knew my grandfather. Killing twenty-two other people to ensure Katniss died would not have bothered him. He would have reveled in the bloodshed had it worked out as he planned.

District Thirteen rescued several of the tributes from the arena, and then the war started in full. Capitol citizens were so confused by Katniss standing against them. Hadn't we given her everything? How could she turn on us like that when we practically worshipped her? The naive fools.

The Capitol blamed Katniss Everdeen and District Thirteen for the current situation. Them and their stupid rebellion that ruined our lives and destroyed the world we knew. Realistically, the Capitol could blame no one but itself. We tormented the districts, stole their goods, left them to starve, and murdered their children every year _for our entertainment_. Watching her first games, I thought the gamemakers had reached new levels of low. Anyone with sense knew the two of them could not both escape the arena. They were being played. The Capitol's citizens were being played. And like good dolls, we danced the way our masters wished.

One thing you learned being related to the highest government official in the country was the power of the those in charge and the helplessness of everyone else. Grandfather taught me about basic politics when I was still little. I thought it was because he wanted me to navigate the duplicitous waters of the Capitol's leaders. I wasn't so sure anymore. I think he wanted to highlight a specific point in our society: appearances were everything.

I too mourned the state of Panem. Countless were dead, children were left orphaned, and victims everywhere cried out for justice. But I also understood it was the Capitol's fault. The Dark Days were only the beginning. Eventually, the oppressed rise to overthrow the oppressors. How did the government never suspect such treachery? And yet, I wondered if it could really be considered treachery on the districts' part. Could you betray something that tormented you? Could you bite the hand that supposedly feeds you if it never gives you food?

In retrospect, I realized the evils we unleashed upon the districts. I was part of it. We all were. The Hunger Games were our sport, our gauntlet, our everything. What did we care that twenty-three families would suffer immense pain? We had what we wanted. They didn't matter. They could never matter. Even now, I found that I remembered some of the games fondly. I remembered how I felt witnessing the violence, the hardship. Maybe we were drawn to it because these were things we'd never experienced. Never would experience.

And now we had. The rebellion had come to the Capitol. Buildings were ruined, lives, even lives of children, were lost, and nothing would ever be the same again. I watched the bombing that ended the war. Packages exploded among the children outside the president's mansion. Limbs flew in every direction. Screams of agony followed, chasing after the departed arms and legs, as though they could catch them and bring them back. Blood stained the ground. Pools of blood grew until the original color of the surface couldn't be determined.

The biggest difference between the first rebellion and the second was that the Capitol had finally lost. The weak, pathetic districts rose above us. It wasn't surprising. We relied on them for everything. We had convinced ourselves the districts could not live without us, but really, the Capitol needed them far more than they needed us.

Before they executed my grandfather for his crimes, the remaining Victors, all seven of them, decided whether to have a final, "symbolic" Hunger Games or not. The individual votes weren't released, but it wasn't hard to guess who said what. Three voted no, four voted yes. Katniss' younger sister, the one she tried so hard to protect, died in that explosion. There was no way Katniss voted no. Not after facing the arena twice. Not after she lost the only thing no one doubted she loved.

The new leaders announced that there would be a reaping, and the number of entries would be directly linked to a child's age and relations. If someone was older or had a father, uncle, grandfather, etc. that was high up in the government, they became significantly more likely to have his name drawn. That left me in the awkward predicament of being eighteen and a direct descendant of the corrupt, wretched president when they planned to exact their revenge.

The original idea was to send one Capitol child for every district child that had ever died in the arena. Unfortunately for the bloodthirsty rebels, seventy-five times twenty-three happened to be a very large number. They had to settle for one Capitol child per year, so seventy-five of us would be launched into an arena. True to Hunger Games fashion, only one of us would come back out.

That's almost twice as many as the second quarter quell, where forty-eight ventured in and only one survived. Haymitch Abernathy, Katniss's mentor, won that year. Here in the Capitol, footage of his games, along with the first Quarter Quell, were aired frequently in anticipation of the third one, the one where everything went wrong. He voted yes too. He and Katniss, who had both made fools of gamemakers, no doubt took the same side in that meeting. I could thank both of them for the carnage that was coming.

Now that I was at risk for the Games, I saw them in a different light. I understood how thousands of kids must have felt every year, fearing their names would be drawn.

My mother called my name. I reluctantly turned the water off and grabbed a towel. I hated leaving my sanctuary. I was safe in that shower. I was home. After drying off, I quickly found some clothes and got dressed.

I walked into the kitchen. Mom stood by the stove, flipping pancakes. My favorite.

"Morning, dear," she said calmly, as though it was a regular day.

"Hey mom."

She passed a plate with four pancakes stacked on top of one another to me. I drizzled the perfect amount of syrup onto them. I walked to the refrigerator, grabbed the juice, found a cup in the cabinet, and set them both down on the counter. I wasn't that hungry, but my mom went to the trouble of cooking, and it would have been rude to not try. The juice was easier to swallow.

My cousin, Reyna, woke up while I ate. I heard her crying down the hall. My mother ran out to check on her and make sure she was okay. My only consolation in this circumstance was that she was only two, and there was no way she could enter the arena.

My mother returned with the baby in her arms. This was all that was left of my family. My grandfather was trampled to death during his execution when Katniss assassinated President Coin, the leader of district thirteen, instead of shooting the man who had annihilated her district. My father, two uncles, and aunt were all prisoners still. The rebellion ended six months ago, and I hadn't seen any of them since the Capitol surrendered.

"Aurora," my mother said, "I want you to go get ready. Wear the red dress. It looks so good on you."

I knew which dress she was talking about. It was my eighteenth birthday present from grandfather. I'd worn it to my party, where he'd put a single red rose in my hair.

I sauntered off into my room, my feet dragging. I was in no hurry. I found the dress she had requested in my closet. It really was lovely. A strapless, floor length dress that showed my figure. I felt no desire to wear it though. Not after I'd learned of my grandfather's crimes. Refusing her would be pointless though, so I put it on, along with the matching shoes.

We left for the Reaping together. My mother dressed for the occasion as well, wearing a turquoise dress that fell below her knees. She generally dressed well. Fashion was kind of her thing. Being a wealthy housewife, she filled most of her time with various hobbies.

Getting there took longer than it had before the rebels invaded the Capitol. The destruction was minimal, but it left a noticeable scar in the city. Crumbled buildings had yet to be repaired and ruined vehicles still littered the streets. Still, we made good time, my mother, and I knowing the best routes to avoid such unsightly blemishes in the terrain.

The Reaping took place where the tributes parade did, probably because that was one of the few places that could hold a large part of our population. Or because they had a sense of humor. It may have been simply to have us start where the other tributes had. From what I understood, these Games were to be near identical in execution as the previous ones.

We were early. The Reaping started at ten and it was only nine. Not a lot of people had arrived yet. I signed in with the new version of a peacekeeper, someone from district thirteen, who recorded my attendance in a huge book of names. A woman in her thirties or forties stood on the platform where President Snow had presided over the parades. I instantly recognized her. Paylor, president of Panem, was going to do the Reaping.

I waited for the event to start in the area designated for eighteen year olds. Children flooded the lane, each standing in anticipation. Parents, siblings, uncles, aunts, cousins crowded in where onlookers observed the parades. Whose families would be ripped apart? Who would never see their children again? I'd already resigned myself to death. Two glass balls rested on podiums beside Paylor. My name was in one of them over two hundred times.

Autumn, a friend of mine from school, appeared next to me. She wore a yellow dress that I found too cheerful for the Reaping. Her brown hair was braided back, and her blue eyes looked focused, determined. Her father had been a gamemaker. I imagined dozens of pieces of paper with her name mingled among mine. I was positive we'd end up in the arena together. We didn't say anything, merely took comfort in each other's presence. At least we weren't alone. Not yet.

Finally, Paylor addressed the crowd. "Welcome, citizens of the Capitol. Today we Reap the tributes for the final Hunger Games. I realize this is a small consolation, but know that we do mean that. The leaders of Panem have seen enough bloodshed, but the districts, and especially the Victors, seek vengeance." She looked sincere. She may have been the president, but she could only control so much.

"As you all know, this Reaping will obviously be different from those done in the districts, where only one boy and one girl were selected each, and as you know, seventy-five of you will be battling this year." She shook her head, as if she didn't want to continue. "So, you see the two balls up here? One if filled with girls, the other with boys. There will be thirty-eight girls and thirty-seven boys. I realize many of you must be wondering how the issue of multiple entries will be handled."

I swore her gaze found me in the crowd. I made eye contact with my grandfather's replacement, doing my best to remain stoic. I refused to give her anything, show her any weakness.

She continued. "Once a name is called, the other entries with the same name will burn away, without affecting the remaining ones. I have been assured that there will be no complications with the technology. Also, let me remind you, that we will accept only two volunteers for the girls and two for the boys at the end of the Reaping, once all seventy-five names have been called. Now, without further ado, let's get this over with."

I immediately noticed she didn't say the famous line, _may the odds be ever in your favor_. Just one more distinction between the regular games and these. The Capitol treated the Games like a celebration, one huge party. The districts' approach contrasted. This was sweet revenge for them. Would they make us pretend it was one huge festival, as we'd always made them? It wouldn't be quite the same if they didn't. How would audiences react now?

Paylor walked towards the girls bucket first, reached a hand into the ironically beautiful globe, and pulled out the first victim. "Delilah Chinney," she announced in a clear voice.

A small, thirteen-year-old girl with blonde hair threw her head back and stepped forward. Someone directed her to a chair behind Paylor. She occupied the first of seventy-five. Paylor reached into the boys' sphere next.

"David Newman." A hulking seventeen-year-old boy with a hard face and broad shoulders joined the girl on stage. He made her appear even tinier. I swallowed.

Paylor continued in that fashion, alternating between the two reservoirs. She entered a trance-like state. Her voice was hollow as she called out names. You could tell she found this distasteful. I decided I respected her. She was fulfilling her duty, even though it was unpleasant for her.

I recognized a few of the names: Granville Furtoro, a boy in my class, Chloë Folder, Hugo Bray, Desdemona Ronnin, Ashlynn Japer... The list continued on and on. I lost focus by the fifteenth name, when the chairs behind her were one fifth full and I realized how many more we had to go.

"Aurora Snow," rang through the audience. I knew it must happen. Truthfully, I was more surprised I wasn't the first one summoned. I approached the stage confidently. Other kids had already cried, screamed, gasped, or walked so slowly they ended up being dragged along, but I refused to do any such thing. I was a Snow, and the Snows did not cower in fear, no matter what the circumstances. I'd done my share of crying when I first heard the system that would be used. No, I'd faced my fate months ago.

Everyone stared as I walked by. I felt awkward, uncomfortable. Before, when crowds stared at me, it was because I was Snow's granddaughter and I was to be envied. Now, they stared because this was my inevitable fate. I'd never liked being gawked at, but this was near unbearable.

I reached the stage and took my place at the next available seat. I displayed a calm exterior while inside I allowed myself some self-pity.

In order to fall, truly fall, one had to be high up to begin with, and the last six months of my life had felt like one enormous plummet. I was falling towards the arena, the Games, where fate would claim recompense for the sins of my fathers. Then I would fall into eternity, forever falling, until I fell too far to remember, too far to care about how far I'd fallen, and I would take my place among the forgotten who fell before me. Together, we would all fall into unimaginable darkness with only the sensation of falling to guide our way.

Paylor called more names. Always more names. It seemed like the names would never end. Drake Wimmer, Linus Borova, Reynalds Kink, Hermia Lyons, Beatrece Culcron, Regina Loveridge. I doubted the list would ever end.

Sixty tributes in, the name called made my heart stop. "Autumn Brandum." I'd begun to believe the Games would not claim her, that she would be okay. I was naive. Her father had been a gamemaker. She almost had as many submissions as me.

We made eye contact as she marched to her chair, her blue eyes meeting my gray ones. We never talked about the upcoming Games. It was too painful. There was an unspoken understanding that at least one of us would be reaped, but neither of us voiced the concern. Saying something made it too real. It was better to leave some things unsaid.

After over an hour, seventy-five kids sat on the stage. Some fidgeted uncomfortably, some stared with vacant expressions, and some hardened their faces into stern looks of determination. The Games had begun. Trusting any of these outward appearances could kill me. Even Autumn, my oldest friend, could no longer be trusted. The rebellion managed to take everything from me: my family, my hope for a future, and now the only person who stood by me when my family sank into shame.

"That concludes the Reaping. Do we have any volunteers?" asked Paylor. Her voice sounded strained.

No one said a single word, not even whispered. The sound of wind and empty promises spread across the avenue. People had joked about volunteering for their friends, their siblings, but that was before reality set in. Everyone was on their own now. No loyalty or affection could change that.

One voice broke the silence. "I volunteer for Graham Howser."

Heads frantically turned to spot the speaker. I identified the voice immediately. A cold shiver ran down my spine. Caliban Howser made his way to the stage. His dyed blue hair shimmered in the sunlight. It matched his dark blue eyes perfectly. He replaced his brother, who fought with him at first, but eventually surrendered. Once a volunteer stepped forward, there was no turning back. Graham went to find their mother in the crowd. How would she feel, knowing her older son chose to sacrifice himself for the younger? Proud? Grieved? Who was her favorite child? Everyone gaped at Caliban, as if he was insane. I could have told them all he was. He turned to face me and gave me his arrogant smirk, the one that I fell for years ago.

Paylor nodded her head at the boy, clearly impressed. "Any others?" she asked.

There weren't any. It was over. Seventy-five children awaited trials and tribulations the likes of which the country had never seen. The largest group in an arena was the second quarter quell when twice the regular number of tributes participated. Thinking like the Capitol-born citizen I was, I started appreciating how fascinating these Games were going to be, even if it was at my expense. In a way, I was part of history. The tributes in these games, like the others, would be recorded somewhere for future generations. These were the Games to end all Games.

"That concludes the Reaping," said Paylor in her weary tone. She must have been busy and exhausted. Constructing new governmental systems took a lot of work, or so I imagined. "Escorts will accompany the tributes to the waiting rooms where they will have one hour to visit with friends and family."

We were divided into twenty-five groups of three, each group with their own escort. They led us into a building and each deposited us into individual rooms. My room was smallish. It had a couch against one wall, a chair in a corner, and enough room for four or five people to stand without feeling crowded. For a minute, I doubted my mother would come. I sat alone in silence with only my thoughts to keep me company, and those weren't very pleasant. I hoped she showed up soon.

She did. I heard a quiet conversation through the door, followed by a faint knocking. She entered, looking regal in her beautiful dress, my baby cousin clutched tightly in her arms. She sat down on the couch next to me.

I leaned into her arms. I didn't cry; I didn't say a word. I just let her hold me. I held my cousin in my lap, that sweet baby girl who almost never cried or screamed or threw tantrums. I felt my mother's warmth and loved the comfort of her embrace. She stroked my hair while I lied against her, the way she did when I was younger. It reminded me of happier, better times, when life was easier, clearer, and infinitely more hopeful.

"Aurora," my mother muttered, breaking the amiable quietude.

"Yeah?" I replied.

"You're going to at least try, right?"

"Mom, I'm not sure I want to."

"What do you mean?" she questioned, sounding appalled.

I immediately thought of the quarter quell, when all the Victors were shown, either because of the Reaping or because they returned to the Arena. So many of them looked awful. "You remember how many Victors fought against the Capitol? How many were alcoholics, drug addicts, or insane? Do I really want to end up like that?"

"So you'd rather die," she accused venomously.

"If my choice is to die as myself or return as someone else, then maybe. What use is surviving if you're not who you want to be, if you can never become who you want to be? So many Victors seemed... Lost, confused, dazed. As well as bitter, angry, and resentful. How did we miss this?"

She sighed. We were probably being watched, but what did it matter? "Sweetheart, you were supposed to miss it. The plight of the districts, the effect the Arena had on the Victors, all of it. The Capitol citizens were left blind by Snow's administration. Mindless residents provide little to no resistance. We were complacent with our lives. Why would we want to change anything? We had everything."

"Was my grandfather really has horrible as they say?" I asked. I had to. I needed to know. How else could I reconcile my memories of an even-tempered man who doted on me every chance he got with the brutal politician that murdered, lied, cheated, stole, and crushed the dreams of others with no remorse?

"Snow was a complicated man, Aurora. He loved power, and he did whatever it took to maintain his power. What made him a powerful leader also made him a deplorable human being. He chose his own path. Just remember, that whatever his flaws may have been, he loved you. I think you were the one thing he did love. He may have been a tyrant, but he was also a good grandfather. People, even the condemnable ones, are variable and intricate creatures. We are all multiple things. And always remember that near everything is a matter of perspective. You miss him, don't you?"

"Yes," I breathed out. I hated myself for it because I knew I shouldn't, but that changed nothing.

"It's not wrong. There are those who would tell you it is, but that's not fair of them. They blame him for everything: The Games, the rebellion, the destruction. But be mindful of this: Snow did not start the Hunger Games, he merely continued them. It was his duty as president to continue them, even if they are sadistic and cruel. What he did to the Victors following them, as well as personal victims of his ambition, is on him. But that's between the Victors, his political victims, their families, and him."

My escort walked into the room. "I'm sorry," he said, "but visiting time is over. Ms. Snow, please come with me. Mrs. Snow, you will be escorted off the property shortly. Please wait here a moment longer."

He allowed me to hug my mother one last time. "I love you," I said.

"I love you too, sweetheart, more than anything."

I followed my escort into the hallway. The Reaping was officially over. Soon, I would be prepped for the parade, and then the Games would begin in full.


	2. The Parade

Chapter Two

Three of the most annoying, clueless, superficial people I ever met circled around me, plucking, cutting, and ripping at every stray hair they felt caused them personal offense. I admitted I'd cared less about my appearance the last few months than I used to. More important things had popped up. Clearly, these three did not believe anything could trump one's personal appearance.

I was stark naked while they washed my skin, plucked my eyebrows, manicured my nails, and trimmed my platinum blonde hair. I felt exposed, and while I wanted to cover up, I knew that in a way they were helping me.

Sponsors would play a major role in these Games as well, and the way to get them was to please the crowd. The Capitol's biggest weakness, besides laziness and gullibility, was vanity. We appreciated beauty, strove to achieve it, and adored those who had it, either artificially or naturally. We concerned ourselves with ends more than means. An achievement mattered far more than the steps that led to it.

Two were men, and one was a woman. Their names were Diaspo, Dion, and Diamond, and they all had the same general cast of features: long noses, hazel eyes, and an open expression on their faces. I figured they were siblings, no more than four or five years apart all total. There biggest differences laid in their hair choices. Diaspo had long, straight black hair. Dion kept his hair short and bright pink. Diamond had hers in braids with actual diamonds in them. She also had diamonds embedded in her skin at the corner of her eyes.

Hundreds of Capitol citizens transformed their bodies to fit their ideals of beauty. Diamond's jewelry embellishments were far more tame than many I saw while growing up. I encountered one woman who had turned her nails into legitimate cat claws, had her pupils slitted to match those of a cat, had dyed her skin an orange color, and had turned her ears into cat ears. She was considered the extreme. Most just dyed their hair unnatural colors or wore more makeup than should be humanly possible.

They gossiped about the latest news, the parties they attended recently, and the current climate of this years Games, and how excited they were to be a part of them. For them, nothing had changed at all. How could anyone be excited for this? Six months ago, every prep team and stylist was assassinated. Did these three have no sense of self-preservation? Come to think of it, how did they manage to recruit seventy-five stylists, fifteen escorts, and seventy-five prep teams? I doubted people were lining up for the opportunity.

"We are so happy we got you, Ms. Snow!" Dion exclaimed while he meticulously filed my nails. That was about the seventh time he'd said that in the past hour. Every time he said it, I became more and more self-conscious. I always replied, "Thank you" in my sweetest voice. Sure, they were preparing me for slaughter, but that didn't mean I could disrespect them.

"We requested you specifically, you know," his brother added.

Well that was something. "That's very nice of you," I told them. Nothing like feeling wanted.

Time dragged on and I marveled at how they kept it all up. I was scrubbed with several concoctions, each smelling more interesting than the last. By the time they finished with the last, my skin practically glowed, and that obnoxious pimple on my chin was finally gone. I tried for weeks to kill the stubborn thing. Whatever substances they used, they were effective. I couldn't deny that.

The downside was that I felt raw, sensitive, as if my skin would peel at the slightest irritation. The sensation left me with a sense of vulnerability.

"You're going to love Cicero," Diamond assured me. She had a lovely, melodic voice. She should've gone into singing rather than fashion. It was probably the safer route too.

Truth be told, I hadn't thought of my stylist that much. I wondered if he requested me too. Was I the hot commodity of these Games? I supposed several of us would be. Autumn, along with a few others, were the children of previous gamemakers, and several of us descended from prominent families.

I was curious as to the general population's attitude towards the Games, particularly in the districts. I withdrew into myself a lot during the last few months, removing myself from the daily troubles and nonsenses of daily life. I continued to attend school because it was required, but no one there discussed the upcoming Games, not seriously anyway. The only two people I talked to regularly were my mother and Autumn. Caliban had tried to contact me, but I blew him off every time.

To help pass the time, I decided to actually attempt conversation with my prep team. "So, do you know much about the upcoming Games? It must be hard compensating for nearly three times the regular number."

"Girl, you have no idea," said Dion. "This has been exhausting. They started recruiting and organizing four months ago. As you've obviously realized, everybody has their own stylist and prep team, and there's an escort for every three of you. After what happened to the stylists and prep teams of the last Games, they had some issues finding replacements."

So they were aware of the dangers. That was interesting.

"What made you sign up? Or is that too personal?"

"Of course not, baby doll! It was our dream to be a prep team for the Games, but we never made the cut. When the chance arose, we had to take it."

"With some legal protection," Diamond added while brushing my hair. "No way were we going out like the last groups. We had the president herself sign a document declaring our protection, along with the protection for all the other teams as well, and made he read it during an assembly. That way she'd be forced to keep her word."

For gossipy airheads, my prep team had some sense. I found I liked them more after hearing about how they got here.

"Why'd you want me then? That can't be a status booster. I'm among the most hated people in the country after all." What I said was true. I endured torrents of abuse, verbal and some physical, after the rebellion ended. Snow failed to protect the Capitol, and since I was the nearest relative, I suffered the consequences. It was one of the reasons I stopped associating with other people. Better to be alone than beaten.

"Baby doll, don't be hard on yourself," ordered Dion, who I realized was the most talkative of the three. "What your grandfather did is on him and no one else, especially not you. Honestly, we wanted to meet the famous granddaughter of President Snow. You are a lot like him in some ways. Reserved, pensive, thoughtful. I can practically hear your brain whirring!"

That was because he raised me to be that way. Enemies needed your help to overpower you. Show them no weakness, no way to gain a foothold, and they would find conquering you far more challenging. That was true in the political and social arenas anyway. Sadly, the Hunger Games' arena operated on different rules.

"Do you think I stand a chance?" I whispered.

"Of course!" screamed Dion and Diaspo while Diamond asked, "Honestly?"

I ignored the two boys. "Yes, honestly."

"Sweetness, you're the biggest target. Both by the gamemakers and the other tributes. You will have to work twice as hard just to even have a chance at survival. The betting already started you know, and the odds are definitely against you."

It was what I already expected, but hearing it said out loud made it so much more real. I appreciated Diamond's candor. My entire life, people avoided telling me things I might not want to hear. It frustrated me to no end. They feared the wrath of my family, I supposed. Diamond seemed so different from her brothers, more aware and cautious. Something told me she was hesitant about doing the Games, and that her brothers probably convinced her.

I didn't say anything after that. What was there to say? They kept up their conversation, but it seemed more somber. I got the impression Diamond bummed her brothers out with her straightforward answer to my question. They certainly seemed less bubbly after it.

After what felt like hours, they deemed me acceptable for the eyes of my stylist. They helped me out of the chair, and Dion held a white robe out to me that I shrugged on carelessly. They took me into a room adjacent to the salon-style one where they made me over. He waited for me at the back of the room, standing next to fireplace where a small flame flickered.

"Thank you. Please leave us now," he said to his prep team without even looking towards the door. They exited wordlessly, leaving me alone with the aloof figure. He turned to face me.

An attractive, youthful man stood before me, with perfect green eyes and medium length blonde hair that had streaks of purple. Unlike most stylists I had seen, he wore little makeup and clearly hadn't undergone surgery. He wore a tailored black suit with a purple shirt underneath that brought out the highlights in his hair. He definitely dressed well, so that inspired some confidence.

He walked around me, inspecting the work his team did. I became more and more aware of the fact that only a robe hid my body from him, and I feared he would make me remove it. Cooperation was key, so I would, but that didn't mean I'd be happy about it. Luckily for me and my self-consciousness, he left it on. There were times when his face was so close to me I could feel his breath on my skin. When he finished, he merely grunted his approval after five minutes of close evaluation.

"You really are quite beautiful, aren't you?" His voice was deep and velvety, with a rumbling quality to it.

"Umm," I stammered awkwardly. "Thank you?" I'd been called beautiful, gorgeous, stunning, etc. since I was fourteen years old. I never let it get to me though. I always attributed it to people trying to flatter me to gain my favor. The only feature I felt particularly proud of was my long platinum hair, which I had naturally, without the aid of dye. That and my eyes, which ranged from storm-cloud gray to nearly silver.

He snickered to himself. I was so happy I amused him. "Don't feel insecure please. I really do mean it. You are a beautiful young lady. I'd always thought the rumors were exaggerated, and that all your pictures and video appearances had been cosmetically altered. Sorry to be so skeptical, but technology does make us question what's real or fake."

"Well thank you," I said. "Am I beautiful enough to stay alive then?"

"Don't you know?"

"Know what?"

"People either seek to protect what's beautiful, sacrificing all they have to do so, or they aim to destroy what's beautiful, sacrificing all they have to do so. Which do you think will happen where you're going?"

"That's just great," I declared, allowing the sarcasm to flow.

"Isn't it? People really are capable of almost anything. Now, let me explain to you how the parade will work. Before, a single chariot was used for every district, both tributes standing side by side. Obviously, that won't work this year. The final groups of three are being determined right now, so I don't quite know what to expect. All the stylists have had to work together to come up with several possibilities depending on the final group of three we end up with. I have my preferences for whom my coworkers will be, but that is neither here nor there.

"Regardless, we have been tasked to prepare outfits that will fit into certain categories, and we will be told them as soon as they are assigned, which should be any minute now. Some of the themes are: the seasons, the elements, day and night, nature, modernization, blah blah blah."

"And you have outfits prepared for all of these?" I questioned, amazement clear on my face.

He smiled. "It's been a hectic four months. But yes, I have made sketches or full outfits for every single theme they gave me, for both boys and girls. I can't tell you how happy I was they gave me a girl."

"Why is that?"

"Girls have so many more opportunities for fashion," he said simply.

Someone knocked on the door. "That should be the escort rounding us all up. You excited to find out which fellow tributes you'll bunk with?"

"Ecstatic," I revealed.

"Come in," said Cicero, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

Sure enough, an escort walked in. Not the same one I had before. No, I would recognize this one anywhere. Effie Trinket, with her pink hair and ridiculous shoes, announced it was time for us to meet the members of my trio.

Her presence stunned me. Was being an escort so programmed into who she was that she couldn't pass up the chance? Katniss was the most famous person in the country, for good or for bad, and Effie was her escort, which made her just as well known. How would she react if I asked about her previous tribute, the one who caused so much trouble? Better not to risk it, not yet anyway.

She guided us to a room where four people waited. I saw that both tributes wore the same white robe I did. One of the kids looked fourteen, and I had no memory of him whatsoever. What was his name? Well, he'd introduce himself. The other made my heart skip a beat. Caliban, looking as carelessly handsome as ever, leaned against a wall with his hands in his pockets. He seemed bored, uninterested, which he probably was.

"Hey, sweetheart," he said. "How's your day been?"

Fighting the impulse to claw his eyes out for calling me sweetheart, I said, "I've had better, I've had worse. Pretty average so far, I'd say. You?"

"No complaints personally."

"Cicero," I started, "tell me this is a joke and I'm not actually stuck with him."

He just shook his head. "Sorry, beautiful. He ended up with one of the stylists I requested to work with. Turns out they actually _did_ keep their promise of trying to put us into teams we'd like."

"Well isn't that fantastic."

"Do you know our theme yet, Casca?" Cicero asked the taller stylist in the room. He had dark hair, blue eyes, and looked like the type to brood conspiratorially.

"No."

"I have your theme right here," said Effie. She reached into the handbag she carried and pulled out a folder. She opened it and read the first paper. "Ah, here we are. The tributes Aurora Snow, Caliban Howser, and Bertram Amiens—stylists Cicero, Casca, and Metellus—will have the theme of winter. Their costumes for the parade must adhere to the theme assigned. Any deviations will be penalized."

"Really?" asked Caliban. "They gave Aurora winter? That's the creative capacity of this year's gamemakers?"

Cicero laughed at the insult. "You have to love the predictability of it. You three wait here with Effie. We have to go prepare your costumes. We'll be back in two at the latest hours. The Parade starts at five. Have fun!"

I took a seat next to Bertram, shooting Caliban a shooting glare as I did so. Two hours in a confined space with Cal. I definitely hadn't seen that one coming.

"Well now, children!" said Effie, "let's get to know each other! I'm Effie Trinket, your escort throughout the Games."

"We know who you are, lady," said Cal. "Everyone does."

"Manners matter, Mr. Howser," she chastised, scowling at the boy.

"Yes, let me tell you. They're so high up on my list of importance right now."

"Sarcastic remarks do not fall into the category of polite, Mr. Howser," she lectured.

I loved watching Effie reprimand him. It reminded me of school, where teachers were constantly on his case for not applying himself. They all gave the same speech: "you're such a bright boy, why don't you just do your work?" He always gave the same snarky, arrogant answer: "because your class is stupid and beneath me."

Listening to this for two hours would get real old, real fast though, so I intervened. "Cal, behave for the next few hours, please? Thank you. Ms. Trinket, it's nice to meet you. Bertram, how are you holding up?"

To my infinite surprise, Caliban abstained from shooting a snide remark.

Bertram answered first, though he seemed surprised at being addressed. "I guess I'm doing as well as can be expected. You?"

"I'm doing well, thank you for asking."

Effie seemed delighted. "I must say, it is wonderful to see young people conduct themselves so graciously! We're going to have the best time, I'm sure!"

She kept up a constant stream of conversation after that. I believed she could talk forever if given the occasion or the inclination. Caliban stayed relatively complacent for the remainder of the time. He would answer her questions if directed towards him without his usual amount of sneering. She asked about our families, our friends, what we'd wanted to do with our lives. She thought she was being cordial and friendly, but really all she did was make us miserable. She was determined to discuss all the aspects of our lives we were being forced to leave behind. Those things we didn't want to think about because it was too painful.

Bertram was quiet, but Effie dragged him into her world, forcing him to cooperate with her. She seemed as though she really was curious about our lives. It was comforting and infuriating at the same time.

After an hour with her, I could only describe this woman as psychotically chipper. The level of perk radiating off Effie astounded me. In a way, it was amusing and entertaining. But, it also made me consider becoming a murderer a few days ahead of schedule, and that would probably be frowned upon. We were only to murder according to their rules and standards. No individual psychopathic sprees.

Cicero returned, shattering my imaginary world where Effie liked to be quiet. "Come on, kiddos. We're going to take you each to a private room to get ready. Effie, thank you for watching them."

She nodded, as though she'd performed some sacred duty. I never realized babysitting was so important.

I followed my stylist to yet another room. This was becoming ridiculous. In a corner of the room was a huge rack with clothes hanging. Numerous dresses, jackets, shirts, pants, and skirts existed side-by-side. If only people could coexist as easily as inanimate objects. Cicero sauntered over to the rack, his hand reaching for a stunning dress without hesitation. He helped me get it on.

The top half was silver, and the color started to morph into a cool blue at my hips. It felt lightweight, which I appreciated, and brilliant, glittery blue snowflakes dotted the dress at random intervals on the silver half, primarily across my chest. Aurora Snow, wearing snowflakes. I almost vomited from the childish irony. Still, I looked amazing.

"It's perfect," I told Cicero.

"Of course it is, kiddo. I made it."

"You're so humble," I joked.

He shrugged. "False modesty is no more desirable than arrogance. There's nothing wrong with a healthy confidence and pride in one's work. In fact, if there isn't one, then you're probably in the wrong business and should find a new one."

He applied my makeup quickly, using a light hand. I received silver eye shadow, some blue glitter in my hair—I could only think of Cal's blue highlights—blue lipstick, and he made my cheeks redder to give the appearance I'd been in chilly air.

"When does the parade start?"

"As soon as every tribute gets there. Come on, we're behind schedule, and if there's one thing you don't want to see, it's Effie when people are behind schedule. She goes absolutely nuts."

Most of the other tributes were in the room where we would begin the parade. I saw twenty-five chariots arranged in order. The children standing besides them all wore thrilling outfits, though some were just out there. One boy had a glowing star on top of his head, and another looked uncomfortable wearing a giant daffodil. His theme must have been either flowers or spring; either way, he wasn't likely to dazzle the crowd.

"Hey there, sweetheart," said Cal, walking up behind me. His suit matched mine. A silver jacket, blue shirt and pants, and snowflakes across the shirt. I understood what Cicero mentioned about girls' clothing providing more opportunities. While his costume was certainly stunning, it lacked the regal quality mine possessed. Or it could just be that I pulled my dress of better than he pulled off his ensemble, but I doubted that. Caliban was nothing if not attractive. Rude and frustrating, but lovely to look at.

"I know I told you to stop calling me that."

"Cause I'm known for doing what people tell me to."

He got me there. "Where's Bertram?"

"I'm right here," he said, coming from nowhere. He wore the exact same outfit as Cal, though I admitted he looked about half as good. Bertram was still growing into himself, being about six inches shorter than Cal, and his dull brown hair failed to compete with Cal's magnificent blue. His eyes also lacked the dark, mysterious quality of Cal's. Not that I was too concerned. I wanted one of two people to make it out of the arena: myself or Autumn, so quite honestly I was sort of happy he wasn't too impressive. Then I detested myself for feeling such hateful, cruel thoughts.

"Up you go," demanded Cicero, materializing out of nowhere. The three of us stepped into our carriage, which was pulled by two gorgeous white horses. To match us, they had silver and blue blankets on their backs with glittering snowflakes. We were set to go thirteenth, right in the middle of the procession. Music started somewhere, and the first carriage set off down the lane. I wondered if audiences had shown up, now that it was their own children going through this.

I stood in between Bertram and Cal, anticipating when our chariot would start moving. I clutched the front of the thing nervously.

"Listen," said Cicero from the ground, "your theme is winter. I want all three of you to be as cold as ice. Even colder if you can mention it. Do not look at the audience, do not make eye contact with anyone. Stare straight ahead with your heads held high. Give the audience nothing."

I obeyed my stylist, transforming my face into my most stoic mask of indifference. I'd mastered this look a long time ago. His instructions pleased me. I was good at ignoring people who demanded my attention. I'd been practicing on a woman named "mom" my entire life.

Our carriage jerked forward. I stopped myself from turning my head, but I heard the familiar cheering and screams from the crowd. Disappointment devoured me. Even with their own children riding to their doom, these people applauded and screamed in excitement. They got points for consistency. And tackiness. I consoled myself by saying district inhabitants must have ventured to the Capitol to witness the events, but even then it couldn't explain the raucous fanfare unfolding around me.

We reached the end of the avenue and our horses came to a stop in the appropriate place. They were so well-trained. Once all the chariots halted, facing the same stage where the Reaping took place only this morning. It was hard to believe it was only seven hours ago. It seemed so much longer.

From the balcony above the city circle, where my grandfather had always addressed the crowd, Paylor gave the official welcome. During her speech, the cameras zoom in on the various tributes. On the screens, I see the vast number of tributes situated around the city circle. I again realize how _many _there are of us. The national anthem played to conclude the ceremony, and we depart into the traditional Training Center, where we would spend the next few days preparing for the Games.

I was apprehensive before the parade, but after hearing the crowd's ovation I only felt hollow. Did anything ever really change? After all, didn't Panem rise out of the ashes of a previous country long ago? A country that destroyed itself through various mistakes and miscalculations. I supposed the part of humanity that thirsted for carnage and disaster could never be satiated. The victims didn't matter, so long as they had their entertainment.

Effie, Cicero, and the other stylists took us to our floor in the training center. Apparently they had remodeled it to make up for the extra tributes. Instead of only having twelve floors, it had twenty-five. How they added thirteen floors in four months, I didn't fathom, but it certainly wasn't my place to ask questions. Our floor was number thirteen, same as our place in the parade.

We rode up the beautiful crystal elevator. I just wanted to go to sleep. Once the doors opened, I asked where my room was, ignoring the beautiful room, and marched to it directly. Upon hitting the bed, which was immensely comfortable, I passed out, hoping I'd never wake up again. It was much better to die a painless death in my sleep than a brutal one on camera.


	3. The Mentors

Sunlight trickled into the room in uneven waves, broken and scattered by the blinds covering the windows. I lied in bed, unwilling to leave the warm comfort of the humongous blanket covering me. The clock told me it was only seven, so I knew I had time. The events of yesterday were starting to hit me. I hadn't really felt the impact of the Reaping until I woke up in a foreign bed.

The only bonus I found in the Games was that they treated the tributes extraordinarily well. My room was humongous, my bed flawless, and the closet held more outfits than any one person could ever need.

Grudgingly, I departed my safety blanket and took a shower. Like the day before, I allowed the burning water to cascade over me for over an hour. It occurred to me that I still had no clue who my mentor would be. Had they failed to secure me one? I shuddered at the possibility. I needed guidance, someone to help lead me through the quagmire of the arena.

Rather than be summoned to breakfast or planning or whatever happened during mornings here, I chose a simple ensemble—jeans and a t-shirt—and exited my bedroom. Now that I was more conscious, less exhausted, I appreciated the splendor of the quarters. Seven doors lined a narrow hallway that dead-ended on one end and emptied out into the lavish living room I had disregarded the previous night on the other. Plump couches and chairs were neatly arranged around a huge television screen.

Off to the side was a large dining area with a long glass table and ten magnificent chairs situated around it. Three avoxes set dish and dish on the table, coming and going from wherever the kitchens in the Training Center were frequently. Unsurprised, I saw no one else in the room. I was an early riser.

"May I go ahead and start eating?" I asked one of the avoxes, a short man with spiky green hair. He nodded his assent.

Watching these poor souls dart back and forth, I felt immense pity for them. Next to the Games, I judged avoxes to be among the Capitol's greatest crimes. For whatever reason, whether it be an impossible debt or a severe atrocity, legal or social, avoxes' tongues were cut out and they were subjugated to enslavement. They could not rise in society, nor could they escape their predicament on their own. If a family paid enough, an avox could be released from servitude, but if the family could afford that, they could prevent their relative's fate in the first place. Becoming an avox was a lifelong sentence, even if the government pretended it wasn't.

The entire system was just another method to ensure behavior. Those in charge discouraged deviance and disobedience. The motto of the Capitol was simple: do whatever you want, so long as you play by our rules. Once you stop adhering to the standards expected, all bets were off, and they could do any sick, twisted thing they wanted to you without fear of retribution. Who punished the punishers? No one, that was who. They were infallible, untouchable.

The fact that the new system hadn't addressed the serious issue yet offended me. These were tortured human beings that deserved some sort of freedom or pardon or something. The sight of them, silently working vigorously, the prospect of a better life unattainable, brought tears to my eyes. My eyes glistened with the water of unshed tears. Upon hearing a door close down the hall, I wiped my eyes quickly, not wanting Bertram, and certainly not Caliban, to see my cry. They would instantly perceive me as weak, and I refused to allow that.

Neither of them appeared in front of me. Instead, I saw a young woman with short blonde hair. Johanna Mason, Victor from district seven and tribute during the Quarter Quell, was in my apartment. If looks could kill, I would've dropped dead instantly from the vicious glare she directed my way.

"So, you're up already," she observed, her voice full of loathing. "That's good. Late sleepers die faster."

I was not remotely prepared for her. "Ummm. Are you my mentor?" If she was, that would be more than authentic. Past Victors were obligated to mentor tributes. Still, I had doubted any previous players would return for this round of Games. Effie had, but she was Capitol-born, bred to value the games.

Having a legitimate champion as a guide would be incredibly unfair to other tributes. But the Games were unfair by design, so that was inconsequential. Did any other Victors return for the Games this year?

"No," she snarled, though she sounded almost regretful, as if she wished she was. "Which is good for you. If I was mentoring you, I'd make sure you received absolutely nothing, no help whatsoever. I'm here for some kid named Caliban." She sat down at the table directly across from me and began helping herself to everything in sight.

"You sound happy to be here," I commented, afraid of the woman but unwilling to show it.

Her lips twitched upwards in a grudging smile. "Every Victor that voted yes was required to mentor this year. It's their way of punishing us. They want us to witness the effects of our choice up close and personal. I'm quite looking forward to the bloodbath at the Cornucopia."

"So Caliban was lucky enough to get you, a bonafide Victor. You have any clue who got Katniss?"

"So you know she voted yes, huh? I guess it's not hard to figure out who said what. Sadly, no one has the honor of being mentored by the great and famous Mockingjay. Katniss is exempt on account of mental instability, and Haymitch is exempt on account of he he has to take care of her. That leaves me and Enobaria. I have no idea who has _that_ bright ray of sunshine, but I can only hope she threatens to bite their throat out."

The rumors about Katniss were true then. Following her murder of President Coin, Katniss had disappeared from the public eye. No one saw her or heard from her or anything. I predicted she would make some on-screen address to the crowd at some point, but it never happened. The Mockingjay ceased to exist. That was what happened to symbols of rebellion. Once a revolution ended, they were no longer needed. Or even wanted. Katniss epitomized tool. First, the Capitol used her, then the rebellion used her.

Johanna just revealed sensitive information with a twisted smile on her face. If leaked, it could have disastrous consequences. It took me a minute to figure out why she said it so matter-of-factly. Who was I going to tell? It wasn't like I could alert the press. She mentioned it to prove how powerless I was. What a sweet girl.

"You and her are close, right?"

"Practically sisters. We got real acquainted in the hospital while she recovered from a psychotic break and I recovered from unimaginable torture. Your grandfather was quite the gentleman, you know. Treated me like a real lady. Sometimes, no even meant no."

"Why wouldn't he? You're such a nice woman. You deserve the very best."

"Exactly! I mean, I have the sweetest disposition. Sure, I've had some pretty intense fantasies, and sure, I've killed my fair share of people, but once we look past all that, I'm fantastic!"

I suppressed a giggle. "I must admit, I find you quite engaging."

"Haven't you heard? I'm a handful. Want to know a secret?" She leaned over the table, getting uncomfortably close to me. "For the first time, I wish I was going into the arena."

"And why is that?" I asked, legitimately interested.

"Because slaughtering you all would be the most fun I've ever had in my entire life."

Johanna was honest, I couldn't argue that. Her hatred engulfed her. That was the kind of fire someone needed to become a Victor. Whether sneaky, intelligent, brutal, clever, manipulative, powerful, determined, or totally morally corrupt; every Victor had at least one quality that just shone. Most of them were willing to do whatever it took to escape the arena. In the end, that readiness to sacrifice their own sense of self to conquer the others led to their success.

The only problem was that it usually altered them significantly. Of course, none of them ever came out and said how the arena haunted them. That would have been criticism, and the Capitol did not appreciate criticism. But you could tell that some of the tributes were never the same again.

I didn't know what to say to that, so I just continued eating my breakfast. I avoided making eye contact with the woman across from me, but I still felt her gaze upon me. Another door closed down the hall. I hoped it was because of someone I liked.

Caliban crossed the living room and sat down next to me. Eight available seats and he _had_ to choose the one next to me. It was going to be a long day.

"Good morning, sweetheart," he said while fixing his plate.

"If you call me that _one more time_, I swear—"

"What?" he interjected, his tone dripping with his signature sarcasm. "Gonna kill me? I'm shaking. Good luck beating the other seventy-three kids to it."

Johanna roared with laughter. "I like him!"

"Aurora, why didn't you introduce me to your new friend?" he criticized. "Where are your manners this week?"

"I must have left them somewhere with my patience. If I find them, I'll be sure to notify you immediately. And don't pretend like you don't know her. I'm sure she _loves_ recognition."

"She's right," Johanna confirmed. "I do. It's the best part of being a celebrity. The adoring fans, the frantic screams. I can't get enough."

"That's the dream, isn't it?" I asked. "To be famous for brutal murder."

Her eyes darkened. "If you're lucky, _sweetheart_, you'll be famous for the same thing."

I lost that round, that was for sure. Caliban snickered, amused by the conversation. Bastard.

Johanna turned her attention to him. "So, what's your name? And please tell me you're eighteen."

"Caliban. And yeah, why?"

"Because that makes you fair game." Her hand reached out and touched his cheek. "We can have some fun in the next few days if you want."

I shuddered at her implication. Johanna was clearly willing to mentor him in a number of ways.

"Sorry, but I'm pretty much stuck on Ms. Snow here. Have been for some time. Not, that I do not appreciate the offer from such a lovely lady like yourself."

Sarcastic to charming in the same sentence. That shouldn't have even been possible, but there he was, doing an excellent job of it. He was rather convincing too.

Johanna shrugged. She withdrew her hand and resumed eating. "Is that true, Ms. Snow? This handsome man is after you?"

I spoke very clearly. "Ms. Mason, ignore him. He likes to joke. Always has."

"Caliban," she scolded, "it's not nice to play with a girl's heart." She smirked and looked him in the eye. "I really do find I like you better and better. It'll be a privilege to mentor you. And here I was convinced I'd be paired with some whiny fool."

"When will mine and Bertram's mentors get here?" I interrupted. I prayed whoever I had was easier to deal with than Johanna and Caliban. Admittedly, it would be hard for him to be worse, but still.

"Relax. I'm sure they'll show up soon enough. Training doesn't start till ten."

Five minutes later, Bertram arrived, looking groggy. He sat down on my other side. Finally, a presence I _didn't_ mind. The front door opened soon after that. In it streamed three people. Effie led the group, her hair as startlingly pink as always, followed by a stern looking woman with gray hair and dark eyes and a weary man with pale blonde hair and blue eyes. I assumed they were our mentors.

Effie introduced them before they even reached the table. The woman was Vivía Hollart and the man's name was Herman Uranhart.

They joined us for breakfast. Silence gripped the room. What was there to say?

Tired of the uncomfortable air holding the room, I asked, "How are you all this morning?

"I'm well!" exclaimed Effie without a moment's hesitation. "Thank you for asking, Aurora."

The man said he was as the same as her. The woman just gave me a disdainful glare and recommenced eating. It seemed the pleasant morning would continue.

Some more awkward minutes passed. I contemplated how to approach the situation at hand. Two of the mentors in the room disliked me, one of whom wanted me dead, which I viewed as a definite problem. Somewhere between the Reaping and now, I had decided I would at least try. Dying without a fight sang of fatalism, and I refused to give in that easily.

Effie broke the tension. "So, children, I think it's time we discuss your strategies for the Games. If you have any that is. We'll work through this together. Now, if you want to do this individually, that's more than okay."

"I don't care either way. Do you?"

They both shook their head. I guess the odds of any of us being a threat to each other were slim.

Either ignoring the dirty looks the mentors shot her or happily unaware of them, Effie screamed, "Perfect! Well, what are you children good at? Do you have any ideas?"

Cal rose his hand to answer first. "I don't know about Bertram, but I know Aurora here is _fantastic_ at doing hair. You think that'll help her?"

So it was going to be like that. Fine. I said, "But, I'm not half as good as Cal here. He practically taught me everything I know."

Johanna chuckled to herself, entertained by the display. Herman appeared confused and dazed—I wondered if he'd been drinking. Vivía, however, was pissed.

"If you're not going to take this seriously, I don't see any reason we should either," she announced. "Give us a real answer or resign yourselves to death."

Harsh, but effective. Cal and I both stopped talking. What was I good at? I learned to swim when I was younger, and I enjoyed that, but I didn't see anyway that would help me now. I remembered archery lessons going badly. Basic self-defense had frustrated me more than anything—I didn't learn anything. I couldn't even lift a lot of the weapons traditionally seen in the Games.

She picked up on my hopeless expression. "That's just great. Nothing at all?"

"Well," I said, "I got nothing for me. Caliban has won fighting competitions at school though. At least two."

"Is that true, pretty boy?" Johanna asked.

He nodded his assent. "Yeah, our school had an annual tournament. I won it three times in a row."

"What about you, young man?" Vivía aimed at Bertram.

"Nothing," he said. "I'm not strong, or fast, or anything."

"Wait." I had thought of something. "I used to like throwing knives. I don't know if it's the most useful skill, but it's better than nothing, right?"

I was also the fastest girl in my school, but I didn't want to say that. Bertram looked like he was going to puke. I didn't want to make it any worse. In my head, I wrote him off as a competitor.

"Depends on how accurate you are," Johanna said thoughtfully.

"That's fine. It's a start. Training lasts four days. My recommendation: pay attention. A lot of it. Try out every station they have at least once: archery, knives, edible plants, ropes, fire starting—all of them. Who knows? You might discover a hidden talent. Now get out of here. Effie will escort you."

We obediently shuffled to the elevator. While in it, I asked Effie, "Why is Vivía so rude?"

"Well, she's from the districts, Aurora. I have more experience with them than most Capitol citizens, so trust me when I say that they're not like us."

"Why is she here then?"

"I don't know that."

The door opened into the Training Center, which was a gigantic gymnasium with obstacle courses and all the different survival and weaponry stations. Only half the tributes had arrived so far. They stood in a humongous semicircle around a dark skinned woman. If being the literal center of attention bothered her, she didn't show it. The three of us walked towards the others and mixed among them, becoming part of the ring, waiting for the others to arrive and for the training to begin.


	4. The Training: Day One

I searched for Autumn in the crowd. Logic stated she had to be here somewhere, but where I could not find. The one person I wanted to see was the one person I couldn't find. Cal stood annoyingly close to me, giving me a strange look as my head rotated back and forth, scanning the room for her.

"Who are you looking for?" he asked.

"Is it any of your business?"

"Not really. Just thought I could help."

I didn't think he'd caught on to the fact I didn't _want_ his help. I needed him once, but that was a long time ago, and I refused to ever need him again. I groaned audibly. Where was she? More tributes had come in, but I still didn't see her. Each new face gave me hope it would be hers, but they all belonged to someone else.

"You're looking for Autumn, aren't you?" he observed.

"No, I'm looking for my other best friend. We're supposed to go to a party tonight." He brought out the worst in me. I was normally so well-mannered, but around him unrestrained sarcasm flowed. Part of me loved it. A bigger part loathed him for it.

"And I wasn't invited because?"

"Because no one likes you, that's why!"

He nudged my arm gently and leaned in towards me, whispering in my ear, "Now, we both know that's not true. Don't we, sweetheart?" I could feel the seductive tone; it ran down my body in cold shivers that both excited and numbed me. My blood burned in my veins, eager to respond to his advances.

_Stop that_, I commanded my body. The desires of the body often conflicted with the wishes of the mind. It was a tragic flaw in the design of mankind. How could we cooperate with each other when we couldn't even cooperate with ourselves? War raged inside us all. For better or for worse.

Distracted by Cal, I forgot to scout out Autumn. In the end, she found me, worming her way through the haphazard circle of tributes surrounding the unknown woman. On the surface, she appeared the same as always: confident, strong, and capable. If she was anything like me, inside was a very different place.

Neither of us were the most affectionate, but I hugged her regardless. She embraced me back, and for the slightest minute we weren't two teenagers in the Training Center being prepped for the Games; we were friends sharing one of those small moments that could so easily be forgotten in the rigors of daily life, where no one considered the small, seemingly unimportant actions that ultimately made up the greater course of one's life. Life wasn't the sum of the big events; it was the accumulation of a lot of little ones. At the end, that's what you remembered most.

I separated from Autumn. We said nothing. We both just turned to face the woman in front of us while more tributes continued to form the overwhelming circle.

"My name is Atala," the woman announced when all seventy-five of us were there. "Listen closely, as I will explain the rules of training. Any breach of the rules will result in unfortunate repercussions."

What repercussions could she possibly have meant? How was it going to get any worse?

She informed us of all the various stations, saying that an expert resided at each one who would guide us in their particular field. Under no circumstances were we to engage another tribute. At combat stations, there would be someone to practice with us, so we could improve on our abilities. We were free to attend each station for as long as we wished. She then listed out the different stations, of which there was no short supply. I doubted I would manage to attend them all long enough to glean any useful knowledge.

I noticed everyone's eyes darted between the space where Autumn, Cal, and I stood and Atala. That was the price of fame. Recognition everywhere you went. I saw various emotions in them, such as hate, adoration, envy, and even some sadness, which shocked me the most.

"Where to first?" I asked Autumn when Atala dismissed us.

"Not archery. We'd never get to go."

I turned to face the station. Sure enough, twenty kids surrounded the area. No doubt it was so popular because of Katniss. It was her specialty, and since her Games were the most recent, they stuck out the most in people's minds. Too bad she had a life of illegal hunting to prepare, while they only had four days. Sure, enough of them probably took lessons when they were younger, maybe even did it as a hobby still, but I estimated only two of them would leave the Training Center with anything close to deadly competency.

"How about the plants station? I'm all for not dying an unpleasant death due to starvation."

"That works," she agreed.

Caliban followed us, but that didn't surprise me. I wouldn't have wanted to be alone here either. I watched Bertram join the line for archery with someone who I guessed was a friend of his. The two talked anyway, which is more than he did with us.

The man was friendly and almost seemed surprised to have visitors. I noticed no one else came over to see him. Something told me his station wasn't the most popular. From what I saw, most people focused on the more combative places, doing their best to pick up some weapons knowledge before the Games.

It made sense. To survive that initial bloodbath, they would need extreme luck or extreme skill. Seeing as luck hadn't proved a reliable ally yet, working on skill was a good idea.

He explained that most plants could be eaten, even if they weren't particularly appetizing. We could consume the bark on trees, leaves, and even a lot of flowers. Growing up in the Capitol, where food was always abundantly available was to our detriment in these Games. None of us knew how to go hungry and still try to function. He pointed out that more of us would die of legitimate hunger than injuries inflicted by fellow tributes.

The trainer warned us against poisonous berries and plants. He also warned that there had been several years, such as the second Quarter Quell, where the gamemakers intentionally poisoned most of the food and water supply to end the Games quickly. If we weren't absolutely sure something wouldn't kill us, we shouldn't risk eating it, unless the alternative was certain death by starvation. He theorized that it was a likely event in the upcoming Games, seeing as the gamemakers had seventy-four to dispose of before they crowned their Victor.

He spent a lot of time showing us illustrations of edible plants, fruits, and nuts. I paid attention to what he was saying, but there was so much information I knew I wouldn't recall it all. I decided to commit about two dozen to perfect memory.

From there, we wandered around the Center, shamelessly spying on the competition while deciding on the next station to visit. From what I saw, almost none of the people at archery could hit the target consistently, and the majority of people with the swords and spears flailed them around without any actual understanding of how to effectively use the weapon. But, if mindless thrashing was the best everyone could do, then the winner would be the one who mindlessly thrashed the best.

"Pathetic, isn't it?" commented Cal.

"A little bit," I conceded, truly dismayed by the farce unfolding around me.

"Don't be so gullible," commanded Autumn. We both gave her a questioning look. She continued, "They could be faking. I'd wager half of them are."

I hadn't thought of that, which was slightly ridiculous, seeing as I had breakfast with the most famous Victor who utilized such a strategy. She pretended to be weak, an easy target, until almost no one was left. Then she showed everyone who underestimated her just how brutal and powerful she was.

"Like Johanna," said Cal, coming to the same conclusion as me.

"Among others," said Autumn, nodding her head. "I watched every Hunger Games in the last few months multiple times. At least three other Victors used similar strategies. So, do not write them off just yet. They could be the most lethal person in the room and not want to show it."

"Such deception is cowardly," decided Cal. I'd forgotten how noble he could be, despite his snarky attitude.

"Such deception is brilliant," Autumn contradicted. "Brains before brawn, sweet Caliban."

"Cal, you're not exactly known for fighting fair either," I pointed out.

"Well, no, but I'm not that bad," he rebutted in a feeble attempt to defend himself. "I don't pretend to be anything I'm not."

"Technically, they're not either," I said, mostly to annoy him. "Just because they don't reveal their capabilities to you does not make them fake. It just means they want to keep certain aspects of themselves hidden, and don't we all want to do that? After all, who is completely upfront all the time? We all have secrets, and we all have regrets."

He surrendered. "You two win. Who was I to think I could argue with two clever ladies such as yourselves?"

"An arrogant jerk," Autumn and I said at the same time.

"You two are insufferable. Come on, let's go hurl some stuff. I'm dying to throw the spears."

We rolled our eyes and followed the eager boy, who just had to play with his toys.

There were two different sections for spears. One, where you practiced fighting, and one where you practiced throwing. Since throwing a spear with any accuracy wasn't going to happen, I ditched Caliban and Autumn there and worked on learning how to wield one in the traditional way.

The instructor showed me where to place my hands for the best leverage. Because spears were so long, they had an advantage over swords on reach, but they were harder to maneuver. I practiced stabbing motions because that's what it was designed for and parrying others' attacks. After half an hour, my arms burned from the strain of jabbing at my opponent and deflecting his thrusts . By the end of the session, I decided the spear probably wasn't my thing. I wasn't bad, but it just didn't feel right.

Autumn had some difficulty throwing the spear. She managed to hit the target only four out of twenty tries. Caliban, however, excelled, delighting the trainer. Why was I not surprised?

We had time to go to one more station before lunch. I wanted to do throwing knives, but they were tired of throwing weapons, so we eventually ended up at the fire starting one.

He told us that the best fires with the least smoke came from dried wood because it held less moisture to evaporate. If we wanted to avoid detection, we would use wood that had been dead for a long time. We assembled kindling and logs and arranged them into piles that would burn the most efficiently. I constructed a decent enough flame given time, as did Autumn. Since matches weren't a guaranteed luxury in the arena, he made us try to start fires the ancient way—with flint. I found it a tedious, frustrating task. I added pyrotechnics to the list of skills I didn't possess.

Caliban encountered more problems than I did. No matter what he did, he could not get a fire to start, with or without matches. I almost laughed at his difficulty, but that would've been going a little too far. I didn't want anyone laughing at me.

When they called us to lunch, he was forced to abandon the attempt. Angry, he stalked off to where we ate, sullen and moody. It was going to be a pleasant day.

The food was excellent, as always. Normally, I worried about eating too much, but I figured bulking up might be a good thing in preparation for the arena, where finding food could be the hardest challenge.

The entire time, Cal just glared, attacking his food. He hated not doing something well. His competitive nature got the better of him on occasion. Saying anything would be pointless, so Autumn and I just let him sulk. We were both used to his mood swings. Still, it was a quiet lunch without Cal.

Afterwards we resumed training, which was becoming increasingly more annoying. Tempers started to run high by around two, when everyone had managed to visit at least four stations. Failures happened more often than successes, which only meant resentment from the other tributes. After a horrible experience with maces, the three of us finally went to the knives section.

We each had our own target to practice. The array of knives was impressive. Some were long with narrow blades, others short with fat ones. Some curved, some curved more than once, and some had serrated edges meant for sawing through anything. Throwing them was hard because they each had a different balance, so we learned how to feel for it quickly. I guessed the trainer designed it that way, since we needed to be able to use any kind of knife in the arena.

My knives made contact with the target almost every time, but they didn't always stick. Still, after working at it for a while, I improved, making solid sticks in the chests of the practice dummies. I avoided aiming for the head since I wasn't that confident. We all stayed there until the training session for the day was dismissed. Bertram, Autumn, Caliban, and I all rode in the same elevator. Autumn pushed the button for the fourth floor, while the rest of us went back up to the thirteenth floor.

I wasn't looking forward to meeting with the mentors. I was sure they would be less than impressed with our first day. Mine already seemed grumpy enough without adding to her stress level.

They were waiting for us at the table. Effie demanded we join them almost immediately upon entry.

_Might as well get this over with_, I thought to myself.

"How'd it go?" asked Vivía as soon as we sat down. Short and to the point.

"I'm gonna give it a solid six on a scale between one and ten," said Cal.

"Bertram, Aurora? How about you two?"

"I'll stick with Cal's number," I said.

"Yeah, six sounds good," affirmed Bertram.

She persisted. "And did any of you learn anything remotely useful?"

"I learned maces suck and while plants may be edible, that does not make them fun to eat," I recited.

"I had fun with the maces!" insisted Cal. "They made me look tough."

"Well, so long as you had fun, young man," criticized Vivía.

"Lighten up," Johanna interjected. "It's not like he has a lot of fun left."

Vivía shook her head, as if all of us were a tedious waste of her time. "So, from what I'm gathering, you two went to edible plants and maces, having limited success at the latter. Any others? And how about you, Bertram?"

"I went to archery, swords, spears, and hand-to-hand combat," he revealed.

"We also did fires, spears, and throwing knives."

"That sounds fine," Vivía decided after a moment of consideration. "Tomorrow, visit two of those again and two or three more. I doubt you'll remember everything they told you come tomorrow morning."

"Shouldn't we go to as many as possible? Not revisit the old ones?" questioned Cal.

"Do you really think you'd remember enough useful information?" countered Johanna. "It's good to gain a large base knowledge, yes, but you need to find some specialties while you're here."

"Whatever you say," said Cal, acquiescing to his mentors' wishes.

Bertram asked to be excused, going to his room without another word. Caliban and I stayed at the table and got to know our mentors. Effie was right. Vivía came from District Six. She refused to tell us how she came to be a mentor though, no matter how much we asked. My initial impression of her was accurate; she was a stern woman who did not tolerate nonsense.

Johanna remained as horrendously vicious as she was that morning, but I realized I liked her sick, twisted sense of humor. When I thought about it, I felt bad for her. She seemed lonely, though she'd never admit it. She wore her attitude like armor, afraid that anything, or anyone, might breach it.

I found Herman to be rather dull. He still had the same weary look about him, and he wasn't the best conversationalist. Bertram was going to have a difficult time in the arena, assuming he didn't perish the first day. He lacked any real skills, and his mentor was boring and lame.

We tried to talk more about them, but they always turned it around on us. Still, it was pleasant, in that tragic kind of way, seeing as Cal and I would probably be dead in a week. We all did our best to ignore that fact.

After eating dinner, Cal walked with me to the bedrooms. I was exhausted from the day of training and the mingling with the mentors, who were certainly intimidating if nothing else. Outside mine, he said in his deep, silky voice, "Goodnight, sweetheart. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

I groaned. "Why do you insist on calling me that, even though I keep telling you not to?"

"You really wanna know?"

"Yes!"

He leaned down and kissed me., starting gently, but soon I felt a longing hunger in it. I surprised myself by kissing him back, his lips soft against mine. I'd almost forgotten how they felt. When he pulled away, I almost stopped him, but I was too caught off guard to react. What did you do when your ex-boyfriend randomly jumped you?

"That's why, sweetheart. Goodnight."

Before I could say anything, he disappeared into his own room, shutting the door behind him.


	5. The Boy Trouble

I slept very little that night. Instead of succumbing to the sweet, restful oblivion I desperately needed, I tossed and turned all night, incapable of getting comfortable. Dispelling Cal from my mind was impossible, no matter how hard I tried. My brain simply refused to quiet down, no matter how much my body yelled at it, demanding it receive some sleep.

At four in the morning I abandoned the attempt. My room had begun to feel like a jail cell. If I didn't escape it soon, I would officially go insane. Not bothering to put on real clothes, I left my bedroom in my night clothes and plopped down on one of the fantastic couches in the main room.

I turned on the magnificent screen to search for something to watch, something to distract me from my own thoughts.

Early on, I realized I would find very little that was not centered around the Hunger Games, past or present. I'd forgotten that in the week preceding the Games, while the Tributes trained and worked out their strategies, the entire Capitol was abuzz with the grand tradition of the Games. The betting had already started of course, based on preliminary guesses as to how each tribute will do. The early betting capitalized the idea that the prettier or more intimidating someone appeared, the better he or she would do, as they were the tributes who already had supporters wishing them on.

Past games replayed almost nonstop, building the excitement and anticipation for the coming round. The Reaping of that year could be counted on to appear numerous times, and the Opening Ceremony, where kids were paraded around to be gawked at, always came on so often every citizen in the country would be able to recognize every participant from a mile away.

In past years, I observed these recaps with interest, like every other Capitol citizen. The horrors of the game repulsed me, like they did hundreds of others who disapproved of the monstrous method of controlling the districts, but I was always as curious as anyone to see who would become the next Victor. Now, I shuddered while seeing the brutality of the previous Games. I paled as I imagined the coming deaths of those pitiful youths riding in their various chariots in our parade.

A video of Johanna's games appeared on the channel I flipped to. I focused a little more on what I was watching. The announcer stated that a special was starting, where the Games of each surviving Victor would be played that day, starting with her.

Autumn had been right. Johanna may have pretended to be harmless, but when she finally nixed that strategy, she decimated the remaining tributes. None of them expected anything from her, never saw her as a threat. She made them regret that, though they didn't have long to regret anything. She manipulated the others easily, luring them to a false sense of security.

I confessed to myself that had I been a contender, I would have been fooled as well. During the parade, she looked timid and shy, and throughout her interview, she was quiet, demure, and nonthreatening, as though she was just a sweet girl from a quiet life, unprepared for the ruthless world that stole her.

She really did play the Games perfectly. From the beginning, she knew what she planned on doing, and she worked out a way to utilize the strategy she designed. She never dropped the act, never betrayed herself by showing her true nature, which was much snarkier and nastier than the one she put on for the Games. I was reminded more than ever that the Games really did begin before we entered the Arena.

I then questioned my own lack of planning. So far, all I'd done is resign myself to my fate, accept that I was indeed a part of the Hunger Games, but I hadn't bothered to devise any sort of trick or scheme. Sure, I worked hard during my first day of training, but it clearly took more than that to win. How was I going to prolong my life? Was I going to even try? Despite my conversation with my mother, I wasn't quite that fatalistic.

"Enjoying yourself?" asked a voice from behind me, breaking my reverie.

I turned to see Johanna walking towards me, her blonde hair thoroughly soaked.

I felt embarrassed at her arrival. She too could see the screen; she knew what I'd been watching. Blood rose to my cheeks, which I was sure were a bright red color.

"It's okay," she reassured me. "It's not like my Games aren't public property." She deposited herself on one of the matching chairs to my couch.

"That doesn't mean I should've been watching."

"You obviously wanted to learn from the best. That's what Victors are, you know, the best. We're the ones who did whatever it took to survive." Her tone sounded bitter, almost regretful.

"Why are you up, anyway?" I asked. "It's six in the morning."

"I could ask you the same thing," she pointed out. "Like you, I couldn't sleep. Following my first Reaping, I developed a horrible case of insomnia. After my first Games, the nightmares kept me awake. Add the second round to those, and I pretty much surrendered the idea of ever having a good night's sleep again. Oh, and let's not forget the torture I suffered because of my part in the rebellion. That was a fun time too."

I was surprised she said so much. I had the distinct feeling she didn't like me all that much. Maybe she was just warning me of the price of victory.

"I'm sorry," I whispered to the woman who had endured so much. No wonder she hated me. My grandfather had tormented her beyond all reason.

"It's not your fault," she said, "But you are lucky you look very little like your grandfather. Him, him I would do such horrible things to without a moment's hesitation."

"I don't blame you," I assured her. "I loved him, but I understand his atrocities, what he did to those who displeased or opposed him. He deserves your hatred."

"Have you thought any more about your strategy?" she asked, changing the subject. "I assume that's why you're watching this madness."

"Aren't you supposed to be Cal's mentor?" I asked shrewdly. After watching this woman crush her enemies, I refused to trust her. Talk to her, sure. Rely on her though? Definitely wasn't going to happen.

"Yes, but Cal loves you, so by helping you, I'm helping him. What can I say? The boy's grown on me, probably because he is oh so sexy. Seriously, how did you manage to land such a beautiful, beautiful man?"

"It's not a story I like to tell, if truth be told. You see, it ends with him breaking my heart, then trying to put it back together again when he realizes he messed up. However, by the time that happens, I'm already broken, and I can't believe in him, and I certainly can't believe in the idea of us."

"That's why you can't trust pretty guys," she advised. She seemed as though she actually felt pity for me. I disliked being pitied, but there was nothing I could do about it.

"Aren't you the one who was hitting on him?"

"Yes, but I will never trust another living soul. I would only use a guy for play time, while you actually fell for the bastard. Take it from someone whose done a great deal of damage to other people, love cripples more people than any sword or injury."

"Is it wrong to not forgive someone who asks for it, who tries to make amends?"

"Well, forgiveness has never been my specialty, so I'm probably the wrong person to ask. Remember this though: just because someone seeks it, that doesn't mean they deserve it."

Silence filled the room as I withdrew into myself, considering what she said. I debated with myself whether I should talk to her about last night. It felt personal, too personal, and while I wanted to discuss it, I couldn't with her. I'd known her for two days. And, from what Johanna already said, I had a firm idea of what she'd say. Ideally, I could talk to Autumn in a few hours, but that would require somehow escaping Cal, who was sure to follow us around again.

However, if I was going to die in a week, I wanted to die with no regrets, nothing holding me back. I wanted my spirit to be free, my conscience clear, and at that moment, I simply could not see the right path where Cal was concerned. But then, had I ever been able to? Walking into your first real relationship, falling in love for the first time, was like heading into a pitch-black labyrinth. The only way through was trial and error, and it was more likely than not you'd end up lost, trapped, or defeated, incapable of working your way through the wretched mire. It didn't help that the other person was in the same maze, but started at a different point, and you were both supposed to somehow find each other.

Johanna and I sat in silence for hours, neither disrupting the calm that gripped the room. Meaningless noises and voices came from the screen, but I ignored them, and I assumed she did as well, as she remained totally impassive. I appreciated her leaving me alone. While I did not begrudge her company, I enjoyed the total quietude.

Soon the avoxes arrived with breakfast, which I was quite eager to eat. If I couldn't sleep, I would devour as much food as possible to make up for the sleep deprivation.

We wordlessly moved to the table and started eating, neither of us overly concerned that no one else had awoken yet. I wondered when my mentor would awaken, and how I could arrange a private conversation with her. Something good did arise from my sleepless night, and that was the fact that I needed to work out some sort of plan soon, because the arena was a treacherous place, and just playing the Games by ear would not work.

Vivía seemed like a smart, clever woman, and I could only hope that despite her brusque nature, she was eager to keep me alive. Something told me she didn't like losing, and to a certain degree, my success or failure reflected on her, depending on how actively she participated. My lack of innate talent obviously frustrated her, but hopefully she'd manage to work with that.

After another hour or so, Bertram and his mentor both made an appearance. I figured it was only a matter of time before Vivía and Cal did as well. I'd been so focused on my distractions, I'd nearly forgotten why I sought to be distracted. Facing him this morning certainly wouldn't be easy. What did he expect from me? This proved one thing: drama pervades every aspect of life.

When Cal did arrive, he avoided me like the plague. He briskly said good morning to us all, then proceeded to consume as much food as humanly possible. I noticed that he would barely even look at me. I wasn't complaining.

Without him to keep up the conversation, being the most social person at the table, every one went about breakfast in a rather morose, somber fashion. It almost felt like a funeral that no one attended. Rather than try to lighten the mood, I reveled in the near tangible, depressing atmosphere.

At last, Vivía showed up. She cut the tension like a knife, clearly not unnerved by our silence. "Before you three depart for training today, you will each be having a short, private meeting with your mentor."

Once she finished her own breakfast, she dismissed us all. She followed me to my room, where I sat down on the large bed while she closed the door behind us. Apparently, all our bedrooms were soundproof, so this way we would not overhear each other.

"Aurora," she began, taking the initiative, which I appreciated, "have you thought about any strategies or did you not mention anything yesterday at the table?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, that I do not expect full honesty around the two boys. Secrecy is a key component of the Games, and divulging your weaknesses around them could easily prove fatal."

Her meaning hit me like a train. "You think one of them would kill me?"

I hadn't even stopped to consider the possibility. Bertram maybe, but Cal? Would he actually do that? He did indeed love to play his games. It had occurred to me that he volunteered for the Games less to save his younger brother, who he was in fact very fond of, but rather to test himself in the ultimate game.

"I think," she said kindly, "that both of them probably want to live, and if you're in the way of that, then yes, they will cut you down. Johanna told me about Caliban. I must stress this: Do. Not. Trust. Him."

I had never felt so confused in my life. How had I not even begun to contemplate an ulterior motives for that kiss? Was he really trying to lure me into a trap? That would seem likely, except he'd been trying to get back into my good books for months, so that didn't feel right. However, how could I truly know what was going on in that twisted head of his? He'd proven himself capable of hurting me once, so why wouldn't he do it again?

I remembered Johanna telling me that she would never trust another living soul. I wondered: did I trust another person? I shared my thoughts and feelings with some close friends, sure, but I was always very careful about what I said. It came from growing up in such a political family. Words were weapons that could be used against you, so I was told to never arm anyone.

In an attempt to steer away from the topic, I said, "I've actually been wanting to talk to you about my lack of prepared strategy. I don't have any real ideas. I watched Johanna's Games last night, and she tricked the others into overlooking her, which I would do, but something tells me that I won't be able to do that."

Her expression looked thoughtful. "No, I don't think you will be able to either. You're the most famous person here, and plenty of these kids blame your grandfather for their current predicament, even though he did not start the Games, merely carried on the tradition. They obviously can't take their anger or frustration out on him, but you? you're the perfect target."

"Do you have any ideas then?" I asked hopefully.

"Perhaps," she announced in a short tone. "I think we should see how training goes today and tomorrow. Remember, to try some of the less combative stations. You're just as likely to die of dehydration, hunger, hypothermia, or disease as you are a sword to your gut, maybe even more so, depending on the arena. We'll come up with something, I'm sure. Come on, training starts soon. I'm sure Effie is about to burst what with being out there all alone."

We left my room and waited in the living room for the others to exit. Vivía's prediction proved true. Effie met us there and kept up her usual stream of polite, chipper banter. How could anyone talk so much, especially when it was clear no one cared? I would never understand how anyone could be so bubbly.

Effie escorted us into the elevator. Once again, I noticed that Cal refused to meet my eye. Was this ever going to end?

Like the day before, I scanned the crowd for Autumn, who was there before us this time. I promptly approached her, not caring one way or the other whether Cal was following or not. If he did, fine; if he didn't, even better.

"You look exhausted," she observed. "Didn't sleep well?"

"That's an understatement, but whatever." I noticed Cal hadn't come with me. Instead, he was talking with a few of the other people we knew, those people who I desperately hoped I would not encounter in the arena. This was perfect. "I have to tell you something," I added in an undertone.

Atala addressed the crowd of tributes like she had the day before, though this time it was much shorter. She informed us that it would be prudent to try out some new stations rather than staying with the old ones, and she quickly sent us on our ways.

That was one thing I could honestly say I enjoyed about training. We could do what we wanted at our own schedule.

I led the way to the fire station for two reasons: nobody else was there and Cal despised it, so I figured the likelihood of him making an appearance was low. The instructor gave us some pointers and suggestions, but generally he left us to ourselves.

"So what did you want to talk about?"

"Cal and me," I said grimly.

The look on her face was priceless. "Aurora, what did you do?"

"Why do I have to have done something?"

"Because _every_ time this conversation starts, you've done something that I would characterize as careless at best, flat out stupid at worst."

I started to argue, but she had a point.

"Fine. He kissed me last night, and I _may_ have slightly possibly kissed him back just a little bit..."

I half expected her to hit me, she was glaring at me so hard. I hated being on the receiving end of one of her death stares. I knew she'd drop it if I just let her do it though, so I sat there, quailing under the look to satisfy her.

"Aurora, you have got to be kidding me."

"I'm not really known for my sense of humor."

"No, no you're not. Well, I'm not going to tell you what to do. But, I think letting that boy back in would be a big mistake."

"You're the one that gets along with him!" I countered.

"And yet, we aren't discussing me making out with him, are we?"

"I mean, it's not like anything can actually happen, can it? We'll both probably be dead in a week."

"And do you want to spend the next week with him?"

"Isn't it time to forgive him?" I asked.

"Aurora, he treated you badly, lied to you a lot, and cheated on you last year, remember?"

"Everyone makes mistakes," I pointed out. I could not believe I was defending him after spending months cursing his very name.

"Yes, and while I think he truly feels bad about all that, I don't trust him, and neither should you. Yes, he's smart, attractive, charming, and funny, but that just makes him more dangerous, especially now."

She sounded like Johanna and Vivía, combined into one shrewd, rational person.

"So you think he's messing with me?"

"I think he's known for messing with people, and I would put nothing past him. Do I think he loves you? Yes, I do. Do I think you should go anywhere near him? Not really."

"If he really loved me, he wouldn't hurt me..." I said defiantly. I wasn't willing to admit the truth, which was that I _did _miss him, and that I was in fact afraid of falling for him.

"Isn't that a beautifully romantic thought?" she said snidely. "History repeats itself, Aurora."

I couldn't think of a good reply to that, so I resumed working on my fire. The instructor had forced us to try using flint again to start the fire. I preferred matches, but I worked hard to master the flint, with relatively decent results.

We departed the fire station after an hour, eager to do something more physical. I was so tired from my sleepless night that if I didn't get up and move around, I was going to pass out right then and there. I suggested swords, so we went and learned all about the classically dangerous weapon.

The instructors spent a full twenty minutes teaching us the proper way to grip it and how to balance the blade correctly. Apparently it was a crucial part that most people would ignore. Instead of just having us slash and stab like hysterical children, they taught us legitimate techniques. I found the sword easier to handle than the spear, but it also felt oddly intimate. The thought of actually hurting someone with it repulsed me, and I was reminded once again that slaughter was approaching.

My teacher was patient and forgiving of my clear ineptitude. I followed his directions without complaint, but I couldn't quite figure out how to manipulate the blade right. Swordplay was something that took months or years of practice, not three days.

I continued with the station following lunch, refusing to give up too easily. Perseverance could prove more beneficial than raw talent after all. I doubted anyone started off able to perfectly wield the thing, though that would be lovely.

After that, I decided it was time to try archery. After a day and a half of failure, the numerous tributes that had visited the station in a desperate attempt to emulate Katniss had disbanded. Autumn too wanted to try the station because, as she said, archery provided a clear advantage over adversaries due to its range.

My aim wasn't flawless, but I did make contact with the target most of the time. Autumn was fantastic. I preferred throwing knives, but the bow was the superior weapon, so I worked hard on improving.

Just so I could say I attended another non-combative station, I looked at knot tying, which was an excellent decision. He taught us how to make snares to catch wildlife. I saw it as a very useful skill, as food was necessary and this sounded like a much better alternative to all the plants I learned about the previous day.

There were hundreds of knots out there, and I realized early on that I would never learn them all. The instructor focused mostly on those that would be most helpful.

Following the day's activities, I felt more confident than I had the day before. I had a stronger handle on the sword than I had a spear, and archery went better than I expected.

I couldn't pretend that my thoughts hadn't flitted to Cal frequently throughout the day. Once again, he'd forced me to look inside and decide if he had a place in my heart. I felt conflicted. On one hand, I wasn't sure I still felt about him that way, though I definitely felt something stir when we kissed, but that was hardly the same thing as love. On the other, I was not going to pretend that we had something if we didn't. Still, how did you let a guy down when the end was coming.

When Vivía interviewed us all that night, she seemed slightly more pleased with our day's activities. Cal, it turned out, spent a lot of his time at camouflage and cooking. Bertram had continued his combative training, going to spears, archery again, and throwing knives.

Cal continued to avoid me. All through dinner he barely spoke to me, even when I tried to make casual conversation with him. I was quickly becoming very frustrated by his behavior. Ironically, when I wanted him to leave me alone, he would not disappear, and now that I sought interaction with him, he practically shunned me like I was some kind of pariah.

By the time I went to bed that night, I had decided that the next morning I would have to talk to him about it. Regardless of any awkwardness, we were sharing quarters with observant people, and they were going to catch on eventually, and that would lead to questions I did not want asked.

_Boys_, I cursed as I slipped under the wonderful blanket on top of the delightful bed. That was my last thought before the exhaustion of the past two days overtook me, and I slipped into restful peace at last.


	6. The Breakdown

Cal avoided me all of the next day again. Autumn and I went about training by ourselves, practicing at the stations we'd already been to rather than search for new ones. After dinner, he darted to his room before I could catch him.

I'd had enough time to realize that Autumn was right (she usually was if truth be told). I needed to focus on the actual problems at hand. Living first, then relationships.

The next morning, I gave him no choice, I waited outside his door. When he opened it, I dashed into his room, which looked a lot like mine—just as spacious and luxurious—and informed him we needed to talk. It didn't take long for it to go downhill.

"Aurora, I don't know what you want from me," Cal said for the fourth time.

"I want you to understand, Cal! I want the same thing I've wanted for the last year. Trust and distractions are luxuries I can't afford. This can't happen." My heart hurt as I said it, protesting my choice. I told it to shut up.

If I didn't know better, I would've said he looked crestfallen. What did he expect me to say? That if this was my last week alive, I wanted it to be with him? Yeah, right.

"Aurora, I'm sorry about what happened, okay? I've told you that."

"Sorry doesn't make things better," I spat. Childish, but true nonetheless. "We could be dead in a week, and you're trying to fix this _now_?"

"That's exactly why. I don't want regrets. Is that so wrong? I made a mistake, alright?"

"Ah, yes, how could I forget. You _accidentally_ stuck your tongue down that girl's throat. I hate when I trip and that happens."

"Doesn't mean I don't still love you."

"Love isn't enough, Cal. Consideration, trust—they're just as important. You lack the first, and I'm all out of the second."

"So this is it, huh?"

I nearly screamed with frustration.

"Cal, can we just get through the next two days? We have our last day of training today, which is basically performing for the gamemakers, and then tomorrow is the interview."

"And then we try to kill each other," he said.

I turned my head, no longer able to look at him. "I hope it doesn't come to that," I whispered.

"What if it does?"

"What are the odds? There's seventy-five of us, and I'm a prime target," I added bitterly.

"Don't say that," he said.

"Why not? It's true, and we both know it. They blame my grandfather, whether that's fair or not, and he's already dead. That leaves me. Now let's get some food."

The mentors and Bertram were already at the table, and they all stared at us as we left his room. Explaining it wasn't what they thought would be a waste of effort, so I didn't even try. People believed what they want to believed.

"Once you're done eating, the mentors will consult you three in your rooms. It's the last day, and we need to discuss your private sessions," said Vivía.

I nodded my assent.

Breakfast was a somber affair. Everyone went on eating, not mentioning that only a couple of days were left before we went in to the Arena.

Once I was finished, Vivía gestured for me to follow her.

She locked the door behind us. I assumed it was soundproof.

"Have you decided what skills to show the gamemakers in your session?"

"Umm," I answered. "I don't know what could really make me stand out. I'm decent with throwing knives and a bow."

"Show them whatever you feel most confident about. Confidence and competency are usually closely related. What about for the Arena?"

"I've thought about that a lot," I told her. "I think I have an idea."

"Yes?"

"I can't try to avoid notice; it's impossible. But I can turn their attention against them."

A smile touched her lips.

I continued. "Maybe I can move around enough to keep those determined to get me busy, then trick them into getting each other."

"What about alliances?"

"There's no way all of them would have one against just me. That'd be stupid. Alliances only last as long as strife doesn't split them up. Besides, I could use their alliances against each other. If one group of four and another group of six want me, I could make them end up meeting each other, and I doubt they'd have time to talk it out. They'd react."

"An excellent plan in theory," she said, "but I question how well you can make it work in practice."

"It's all I got."

"Anything can happen in the Arena. Remember that," she warned.

"I'll tell you how the session goes."

Effie escorted us to the Training Center. About half the tributes were already present. Ordinarily, we'd have the morning for final training and the afternoon for private sessions, but because of the number of tributes this year, we would only have an hour for last minute preparation.

Expectedly, dozens ran off for some last minute archery practice. Their individuality and initiative astounded me. Autumn and I shook our heads. From what we'd noticed, maybe half of them had anything close to talent or skill. Most couldn't hit the target from twenty feet away.

I went off to throwing knives, while Autumn worked with a sword some more. I tested a variety of the weapons for two reasons. I didn't know what might be in the Arena, and I wanted to figure out my favorite ones before my individual session.

I found one knife with a six inch wavy blade. Holding it by the blade, I lined up my throw, and threw the knife, lightly snapping my wrist at the end. It sailed through the air, and sank three inches into the target.

Another, which had a slightly curved blade and was eight inches long, flew even better, nearly hitting the center. I couldn't stop myself from smiling, ridiculously pleased with myself.

The number of options was staggering. I realized, slightly disappointed, I wouldn't have time to throw each one. Instead of trying them all, I focused on the two I'd already selected, perfecting the throw.

I'd throw the knives, go retrieve them, step back, and throw them again. It was a tedious, mind-numbing, and repetitive process.

What I needed was a moving target. In order for a thrown knife to be effective, even a little bit, you needed to know exactly how far away the target was and throw accordingly. If the target moved, it became easy to strike with the handle instead of the blade. Too bad those weren't available.

After the hour was up, a bell sounded through the center. We were taken to the lunch room where we would wait for our names to be called. As part of group thirteen, I would be in the middle. We'd have ten minutes to impress the gamemakers. Ten minutes to stand out. Ten minutes to earn a score that could mean the difference between life and death.

No pressure.

A bell sounded, and the first tribute was called in. Seventy-four sets of eyes followed him.

Ten minutes later, the bell rang again. The next person from group one left. Again, everyone left watched him go.

Autumn was part of group four. When the bell sounded, signaling for her to go, she walked confidently through the door. I tried not to feel too jealous.

As the hours went by, I became more and more tense. With each kid that left, I grew more nervous. Cal was smart enough not to talk to me. But that left me alone with my thoughts, which were getting more annoying than he was.

After what felt like years, Cal was summoned. Where Autumn had looked calm, he looked arrogant, as if this was just another idiotic thing for him to excel at. What a jerk.

The next ten minutes were torture. My heart was beating against my chest, and I was sweating everywhere. I wiped my hands on my pants. Hopefully I wouldn't have to shake anyone's hand. That would be embarrassing.

The bell's toll saved me from my oncoming panic attack.

I got inside, and my heart stopped. Sitting on the gamemakers' platform were two people I would recognize anywhere. My dad and Autumn's both sat in the front row.

I gasped. My dad was a gamemaker. No, he was _my_ gamemaker. My dad's job was to kill me. Kill me in the most entertaining and painful way possible.

_Panic later_, I commanded myself. I remained motionless.

_Seriously. Now would be a great time to move_. Nothing. I kept on staring at the man who raised me. He made eye contact, holding my gaze without flinching. Then he shook his head half an inch; I almost didn't notice.

Something about that gesture reminded me of where I was, what I was supposed to be doing.

I grabbed one of the bows and a quiver that held a dozen arrows, strapping it to my back as I walked to grab the knives. With my weapons ready, I squared off in front of the targets. First, I shot three arrows in rapid succession, each hitting a vital. Then, I put the bow down and started hurling knives at the dummy. By the time I finished, the arrows were joined by half a dozen of the things.

I figured I only had a couple of minutes left. I picked my bow back up and held it in my left hand. Then, I threw my favorite knife, the one with the curved blade, and before it made contact, I notched an arrow, pulled the string back, and let the missile fly. By some happy accident, the two embedded themselves in the target at the same time. One in the throat, the other three inches below in the sternum.

"Thank you," my father said, his tone detached. "You're dismissed."

"Sure," I said and pulled out the arrows and knives. No one was supposed to know what another tribute did. It would give an unfair advantage, and we certainly couldn't have that, now could we?

I rode the elevator up to my floor, went straight to my room, and curled into a ball on my bed. Tears slowly formed. I fought them for a while, then gave in, letting them rain down. Muffled sobs racked my body, and waves of self-pity cascaded over me.

How could this happen? I asked myself that question over and over and over. It wasn't enough to throw me in the Arena as a prime target? They had to make my own father one of the gunman?

Once, I fell off a tree in our yard. I landed on my left arm. Badly. The doctor said I broke it clean through. My father was the one who found me. He'd heard me screaming from inside the house. He lifted me off the ground, cradling me in his arms until I saw the doctor. He'd always been a solid comfort in my life, my rock.

Now that rock was going to bash my head in.

"Aurora!" Effie squealed. "The scores from the day are going to air soon."

Somewhere in the back of my mind I understood that was significant, but I couldn't grasp why. I was sure it didn't really matter. Nothing else did, so how could it? I heard retreating footsteps and guessed she walked away. Good.

Then another knock disturbed my misery. "Aurora, I know why you're in there. You can come out."

"Can and will are two totally different things, Cal."

"Will you open the door?"

I stumbled to it and wrenched it open. He looked beautiful as always, his dark eyes filled with pity. He scanned my tear-streaked face, nice enough not to mention the blotchy red eyes and flushed cheeks.

"I'm so sorry."

"Not your fault, "I said. "Just another part of the Games."

He opened his arms up, offering a hug. Ignoring all common sense, I collapsed into him, letting him close his arms around me. I felt safe. I felt warm.

"Cal?"

"Yeah?" He pulled his head back to look down at me.

"Come here." I pulled his head down and kissed him. He seemed startled at first, then relaxed. The kiss built, deepening the longer it went on. I disengaged first, then smiled up at him.

I was far too exhausted to even consider the consequences, much less care. I reached behind him, closed the door, and pulled him back down to me, and lost myself in the sweet oblivion.


End file.
